• Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Flickr
  • YouTube
Thinking Out Loud
  • Thomas Merton: A Special 'Thinking Out Loud' Blog Series

    by Michael Jinkins | Sep 16, 2016

    Thomas Merton QuotePeriodically throughout the 2016-2017 academic year, "Thinking Out Loud" readers will receive blog posts that explore concepts of spirituality as they relate to the writings and teachings of Thomas Merton.

    A Trappist monk who resided in the Abbey of Gethsemani, Merton was one of the most influential Catholic writers of the 20th century.

    The first entry of this series will publish Friday, September 23. We hope you enjoy this special series of “Thinking Out Loud.”

    E-mail us!

  • A Summer Lament

    by Michael Jinkins | Sep 13, 2016

    A Summer LamentThis summer a number of folks debated whether they still want to live in this country. The feeling was widespread enough that billboards were erected by a South Carolina real estate firm advertising that if you want to move to Canada, they will sell your house for you. And the desire to escape, for others, was not limited to our national boundaries. There were times when one might be excused for thinking that humanity had lost its collective mind.

    One unspeakable act of cruelty, hatred and violence following another. The tragedies we witnessed this summer were punctuated by the depressing spectacle of American politics, which exhibited worrying (and growing international) trends toward nativism and tribalism, nationalism run amok, my-way-or-the-highway arrogance and know-nothing-ism.*

    In the midst of all of this, I found my own faith restored - at least partially and tentatively - by a rising chorus of lamentation. Sometimes the lament consisted more of tone than content. At other times it was full-out lamentation. Sometimes the laments came from like-minded friends, but often from people I do not know, with whom I may differ considerably when it comes to politics or religion.

    We tend to forget just how powerful lamentation is as a force for good. We tend to think that angry rhetoric is more powerful. But there is no human expression that deals so effectively with the tragic, the catastrophic and the awful as does lament.

    Lament expresses human grief, sadness and disappointment in the face of loss, devastation and oppression. Lament can become a vessel that carries wrathful denunciations of injustice, certainly, but also ironic tweaks of the nose to actual and would-be tyrants. The person lamenting can deliver her message through tears of sorrow or with a voice choked dry from having cried far too long. Lament even has a place for mocking scorn and the sort of laughter that puts the proud in their place. Lament appeals to a higher bar of justice than any earthly court and demands that we hold ourselves to a higher standard than momentary self-interest.

    Lamentation has the power to lift up those who are battered and damaged as well as those who do the battering and cause the destruction, because lament places history and its actors in the hands of the God of history while refusing to relinquish human accountability. Lament recognizes that no one but God has the power to restore both the broken and the breakers. This is why, of course, the biblical Psalms of Lament are ultimately heralds of redemption.**

    The growing chorus of lament this summer reminded me that God will not be left without a witness even on the darkest days. And it deepened in me the consciousness that is essential to prayer - and this is especially true of lamentation - of entrusting this world and all we love to the hands of God.

    As the tragic, devastatingly violent, and sometimes demoralizing events of the summer live on in our memories like nightmares from which we cannot wake up, I invite us all to join in the empowering and liberating act of lamentation. To pray a prayer of lament is to confess that despite its dangers, terrors, insanities and evils, this world is still God's world. God is willing to be held accountable for it. And God holds us accountable for it too.

    Ultimately, to lament is an act of hope, because the one lamenting believes, sometimes against a mountain of contrary evidence, that good prevails in the end because God is good. That's why so many laments begin: "How long, O Lord …?"


    *The lead article in an issue of The Economist this summer ("The New Political Divide") lamented the dangerous new politics that may be eclipsing left vs. right, i.e., open against closed. Noting the reemergence of isolationism on the left and the right in American politics, the magazine goes on to say: "America is not alone. Across Europe, the politicians with momentum are those who argue that the world is a nasty, threatening place, and that wise nations should build walls to keep it out. Such arguments have helped elect an ultranationalist government in Hungary and a Polish one that offers a ... mix of xenophobia and disregard for constitutional norms. Populist, authoritarian European parties of the right or left now enjoy nearly twice as much support as they did in 2000, and are in government or in a ruling coalition in nine countries." (“The New Political Divide," The Economist, July 30, 2016, p. 7.)

    **Among some fifty Psalms of Lament in the Psalms are: Psalms 13, 22, 25, 80, and 109. If you would like to read more about lamentation in the Psalms, I recommend Claus Westermann's Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1987); Patrick Miller's They Cried to the Lord: The Form and Theology of Biblical Prayer (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994); and Walter Brueggemann's The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing, 1984).

  • The First Shall be the Last

    by Michael Jinkins | Sep 06, 2016

    The First Shall be the LastIn June of this year, as Britain approached its referendum on whether to leave the European Union, Jo Cox, a Labour Party Member of Parliament, was brutally murdered on the streets of Birstall, West Yorkshire. As her assailant murdered her, he shouted, "Put Britain first."

    Like the demon whom Jesus confronted in Gadarenes (Mark 5:9), this man's name could be "Legion," as the demon said to Jesus, "for we are many." It seems ever more apparent that the common demonic zeitgeist of our time is a tribal spirit which threatens to split the human family into ever smaller units, to drive wedges between us in the name of nations, politics and religions, to erect impregnable walls so that the "we" on one side need never be sullied by the "them" on the other.

    There is nothing more "common" than the spirit that claims that our tribe is unique, that our little group is special, especially blessed by God, exceptional, Number One. There is nothing more "common," more vulgar, more primitive, few things more dangerous, and nothing less true.

    Tribalism appears in the disguise of pride; but, in fact, it reflects a profound lack of confidence and a deep insecurity, sometimes something close to self-loathing. Rarely (maybe never) does one find a genuinely secure, healthy, confident person or group of people possessed by this demonic force. Persons afflicted by such a spirit, though claiming to be guided by enlightened self-interest, tend to act instead on an instinctive fear of others. What we might describe as the "other-ness" of the "other" is the thing that threatens them most. So they attribute to the other the worst characteristics and tendencies imaginable. It does not matter one whit whether the tribalist is British or French, Ugandan or Argentine, Chinese or Libyan. The spirit that tribalism manifests is the same small-minded, insecure, ignorance and fear wherever it emerges, whether it is a mentally unstable British man shouting "put Britain first," or a cravenly opportunistic American politician claiming that it is America that deserves that position.

    Religion doesn't seem to make much of a dint in the tribal spirit. If anything, religion is most often co-opted by it.

    Whether we are exploring a history of the inability of Christian faith to thwart the imperialism pursued by most Western nations throughout the modern period, or the impotence of Christianity to curb the nationalistic chauvinism of Germany prior to the First World War, or the inability of Buddhism and other faiths to influence their followers to resist the rise of Japanese militarism prior to the Second World War, the thing that stands out is that religious faith seems powerless in the face of tribalism. Religion seems most often to make a secondary claim, at best, on the loyalty of those obsessed by the tribe's primacy. And in those times when religion appears to make a primary claim, that claim may be no less violent and destructive when it is linked to tribalism.

    The Christian preacher who stands in her pulpit pointing out that Jesus calls us to love not only the members of our own tribe, but strangers too, those unlike us, those who do not share our ways or even love us (Matthew 5:46; Luke 6:32), is likely to taste the rejection of the tribe for herself. Yet, there are few things more true than that Christianity's genius, inherited from its founder, is its global universality. "God so loved the world," the fourth gospel tells us (John 3:16), not "God so loved my tribe."

    The story of Christianity is the story of good news that will not respect the walls erected by human hands, but opens the eyes of people to the fact that every partition we erect is called into question by the neighborhood of Jesus Christ (Galatians 3:28; Ephesians 2:14). The Spirit of Christ runs counter to the spirit of the tribe, calling us to let go of the fears and self-hatred that separate us and to find in Christ the humanity that revels in God's love for everyone God created.

    But, of course, if you are still reading this essay, you probably already agree. And if you don't agree, you stopped reading long ago.

    How do we help the tribalist learn the love of God that overcomes self-loathing and casts out fear and that replaces the primitive distrust of the outsider with a confident eagerness to know the other? How do we act in society to limit the damage the tribal impulse can do while also seeking to recover the humanity of those who are possessed by this demonic force?

    The place we all have to start is with ourselves: first, to recognize the impulse toward tribalism that lurks in every heart, our own hearts included, and, then, to allow the light of the love of God to penetrate those hidden places. This is not easy. It may require some painful soul-searching. The spirit of tribalism takes many seemingly wholesome and religiously-sanctioned forms. But of this we can be sure, whenever we feel the compulsion to insist that "we are first" and our interests matter more than the needs and concerns of others, we are on our way to the back of the line. "The first," according to Jesus of Nazareth, "shall be last" (Matthew 20:16).

  • How Full is the Glass?

    by Michael Jinkins | Aug 30, 2016


    Grace Winn EllisEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by teacher and playwright Grace Winn Ellis (pictured), who is the daughter of the late Dr. Albert Curry Winn, president of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary from 1966 to 1973. Grace’s writings can be found on her website, gracewinnellis.com.

    Optimists see a glass half-full. Pessimists see one that is half-empty. I admit that I lean more toward the negative point of view. And recently I have been having half-empty feelings about the church—about the small congregation I am part of, about the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), and about what we used to think of as “mainline” protestant churches—Presbyterian, Episcopal, Methodist, Lutheran, etc.

    The truth is that there are many signs to indicate that these churches are in trouble. Attendance is dwindling. Congregations are aging. The median age in the Presbyterian Church is now 61! Finances are strained. Any attempt to raise funds for maintaining our buildings would seem very risky to a financial analyst.

    My father’s generation rejoiced when their efforts reunited the Presbyterian denomination, which had been divided since the Civil War. Almost immediately, there were new divisions—ostensibly over the question of whether the patriarchal traditions of the first century still applied to the church. I grieved over that division. I grieved again a few years ago when a downtown church, where my father’s great uncle once served as pastor, left the denomination.

    The majority of the millennial generation—those born between 1980 and 2000—describe themselves as “nones”—vaguely spiritual but not attached to any particular congregation, denomination or religion. The minority who do attend church are more likely to be attracted to conservative churches, including some of those formerly part of the PC(USA). These statistics have played out in my own family. My husband and I and our six siblings have eleven children. Four have been part of conservative churches. Seven do not participate in any form of organized religion.

    Sometimes I feel drawn to those Psalms of complaint and despair: Oh, Lord, where are you? Why have you abandoned us? We have been faithful. Why do we suffer while others prosper?

    I find some comfort in the writings of Phyllis Tickle. In her book The Great Emergence (Baker Books, 2008), she tracks major shifts in history of the church. One key idea is that when there are splits, both the old and the new survive. When Christianity broke its ties with Judaism, when the Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches split, when Protestants left the Catholic Church—all survived. All still seem to have a role to play in God’s plan.

    I also remember learning that in its earliest days, the Soviet Union brutally attempted to stamp out the Russian Orthodox Church. After great unrest, the government tried a new tactic. It forbade anyone to teach the faith to the next generation, but it allowed the old women, the babushkas, to come into the churches and dust and light candles, thinking that when all of them had died, that would be the end of the church. But as each generation of babushkas passed away, it was replaced by the next one. The church survived, and when the restrictions were relaxed, it bloomed again.

    So, here’s the thing. It’s not about whether the glass seems to us to be half empty or half full. It’s about God’s purpose, God’s plan, God’s will.

    Congregations one hundred years from now may be quite different from those today. Our systems of government may be altered. Buildings may be abandoned. New collaborations may serve community needs. Our job is to listen with attentive hearts to where God is leading us.

    As the Psalms and our favorite hymns teach us, with the eyes of faith, we can see the glass that is, in fact, neither half empty nor half full, but filled to the brim:

    “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

    “I nothing lack if I am His.”

    “My cup with blessings overflows.”

    Or in the words of a Taizé hymn:

    “Those who seek God can never go wanting … God alone fills us.” (In Spanish, “Solo Dios basta.”)

    God’s mercy is, quite simply, enough.

  • Learning from Disability Theology

    by Michael Jinkins | Aug 23, 2016

    Debra MumfordBY DEBRA MUMFORD

    Editor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog is guest written by Dr. Debra J. Mumford (pictured), Louisville Seminary’s Frank H. Caldwell Professor of Homiletics.

    Earlier this year, I presented a paper on preaching and health at Societas Homiletica, the international homiletics conference in Stellenbosch, South Africa. During the question-and-answer period, I was asked, “If it is the will of God that all people experience good physical health, what do you have to say to good and faithful Christian people who experience illness and disease and who do not experience healing?” After the conference I began to wrestle with that question. I sought answers from a number of different theologians and found some of them in the work of disability theologian Nancy Eiesland.

    Eiesland was an ethics professor at Candler School of Theology and a pioneer in the field of disability theology. In her book, The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability, Eiesland sought to develop a theology of disability that would encourage Christians to embrace their disabled sisters and brothers and welcome them into their faith communities. She argued that if Christians could conceive of the resurrected Christ as disabled because of the impairments of his hands and feet which he suffered on the cross, then new possibilities of understanding the human body in relation to God could be realized.

    First, she asserts that the disabled God allows us to redefine what it means to be whole. The Greek term hugies, which is translated as whole in some of the gospels, can mean “to restore to health.” Yet, Eiesland argues, though Jesus was physically impaired, he was still understood by his followers to be holy and divine. Therefore, Eiesland believes that wholeness has more to do with relationships—with God and other people—than bodily perfection. If we apply Eiesland’s logic to those experiencing sickness and disease, then someone who has terminal cancer and is in right relationship with God and their neighbors, is indeed whole.

    Secondly, Eiesland contends that the disabled God calls upon all Christians to recognize and accept the limits of human physical bodies. Jesus’ physical body bore evidence of its limits through impairments acquired through abuse and torture. Eiesland deems acknowledgment of the physical limits of the human body as liberatory realism. Liberatory realism is freedom experienced by accepting the reality that all bodies have limits. It is the truth of being human.

    Eiesland highlights the disconnect between the idealized bodies that are paraded in advertisements and the real bodies of most of us that fall far short of physical perfection. Attempting to realize the ideal body prevents most people from loving and appreciating their bodies just as they are.1 For Eiesland, when all humans accept the reality that their physical bodies have limits, attention that is now focused on attaining and retaining human perfection can be redirected to issues of justice to insure that all people have access to resources they need to live full lives. Barriers that exclude and humiliate many can be torn down. Hope can be envisioned so that people with bodies outside of the previously accepted social norms will realize that their lives are worth living. Those with conventional bodies may be emboldened to embrace their own bodily limitations by acknowledging that even conventional bodies fail at times. Those with impaired bodies may be emboldened to affirm their own bodies as good, whole and beautiful just the way they are.2

    Thirdly, Eiesland believed that all human bodies are subject to contingency or chance and uncertainty. As a result, all human bodies come in three forms: temporarily able-bodied, temporarily disabled or permanently disabled.3 The temporarily able-bodied are those who have not yet experienced the effects of sickness, disease or age. She contends that even those who experience good health throughout their lives will, if they live to experience old age, also experience disability to some degree. Her point here is that being disabled or sick is not necessarily an indication of lack of faith or being in a sinful state. Rather, physical disability, sickness and illness are the consequences of being human. Period.

    To those who would argue that by imagining God as disabled we are simply downsizing God to fit into our human conceptions, I would say perhaps you are right. And, it is something we do all of the time. Throughout scriptures, in our denominational traditions, and in our daily lives we ascribe human attributes to God in an attempt to better understand the God we serve. However, if we can learn to embrace the spirit which is God, then we can stop attempting to create images of God in an attempt to be exclusive. We can rather embrace the spirit which allows us to be radically inclusive.

    So today, in response to the question, “If it is the will of God that all people experience good physical health, what do you have to say to good and faithful Christian people who experience illness and disease and who do not experience healing?” I would say, “Your illness can happen to any of us because we are human. God loves you just the way you are.”

    1Nancy Eiesland, The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 110.
    2Eiesland, The Disabled God, 95-96.
    3Eiesland, The Disabled God, 110.

  • Daniel Berrigan

    by Michael Jinkins | Aug 16, 2016


    Mike MatherEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog is guest written by the Rev. Mike Mather (pictured), Pastor of Broadway United Methodist Church in Indianapolis, Indiana. Mike is also a member of the Louisville Institute Board of Directors.

    “…they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
       and their spears into pruning-hooks;
    nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
       neither shall they learn war any more.” —- Isaiah 2:4

    I’ve often heard those words preached on, and I saw them lived in the life of Father Daniel Berrigan. At small and at large - and always suffused with laughter - Dan had a gift for turning swords into ploughshares, both joyful and rewarding work.

    When I think of Dan, I think of the words: “God’s Fierce Whimsy.” It was a book title by the Mud Flower Collective, but it captured my experience of Dan.

    During my years in seminary (1982-1985), I spent time with Dan. I met him at Kirkridge Retreat Center and was arrested with him in New York City. In conversations with him during those years he shaped and formed my faith.

    In my second year in seminary, I spent a month in prison for praying at the “christening” of a Trident nuclear submarine. People were upset with me. A friend set up a conversation between Dan and me upon my return from prison. I told Dan about the people who were unhappy around me. His response was, “Jesus said following him would divide people. Don’t you believe him?” Yes, I do.

    Dan went on. He told me that because following Jesus can divide people, we need to be as disarming as possible.  

    He told me a story about meeting with the head of the Jesuits after his arrest and conviction for pouring napalm on draft records in Catonsville, Maryland. The head of the order asked him sternly, “Do you want to remain a Jesuit?”  

    “Why yes, yes I do,” Dan answered. And then quietly, softly he turned the question on his superior, “Do you want to remain a Jesuit?”

    He looked at me and said, “Always be disarming.” I wondered about that as I left. What did that mean? How could I turn the sword of people’s anger and disagreements into ploughshares? I liked his words, but I didn’t know how to live into them.

    Years later, I am aware of how much I took those words to heart. Beating swords into ploughshares didn’t mean beating the sword carrier. In one way it means re-purposing the sword and the spear. It means taking what is in our hands and inviting people to use it as a tool for feeding one another.

    In a day and age when we use the term “peacekeepers” for people carrying weapons into war zones, I think that Dan may have been on to something. He turned those swords and spears into kitchen instruments for friends and enemies to use to share a holy meal together.

    Laughter filled the air around Dan. The best kind of laughter that carries both insight and challenge.

    Dan came to give a talk at the seminary I attended. Afterwards he met with the students over lunch. Dan was asked about the recent (at the time) silencing of the liberation theologian, Leonardo Boff. “What do you think is the future of liberation theology now that Boff has been silenced by the Vatican?” Dan’s response (whimsical as ever), “Liberation theology has been around a lot longer than the Vatican. At least since the Exodus. So, I would say that the real question is, ‘What’s the future of the Vatican?’”

    At that same lunch someone asked Dan why he’d done all the things he had done. Hadn’t it come at great cost, people wanted to know. “Well, if it wasn’t fun, I wouldn’t have done any of it.” People laughed, but he was serious. I thought of the words of Jesus in John 15 as he headed off to his death: "I came that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be full." With Dan it was always full.

    A year before, I had attended an appeal hearing in New York City for some of Dan’s friends who had hammered swords into ploughshares at the King of Prussia plant in Pennsylvania and were serving long sentences in federal prison. After the hearing, Dan invited the attendees (and defendants) to a restaurant in Chinatown. We gathered around a large round table sharing food and companionship. The sentences some were carrying around the table didn’t do anything to diminish the sense of freedom there was around Dan. Turning swords into ploughshares is rewarding work.

  • Our Shared Spiritual Path

    by Michael Jinkins | Aug 09, 2016


    Fred TurpinEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by Dr. Fred H. Turpin (pictured). Fred is a Louisville Seminary alum (MDiv ’72) and a member of Louisville Seminary’s Caldwell Society.

    Let me begin by stating that I am not, nor never have been, the pastor of a congregation. That has never been my calling. I have been a chaplain at hospitals and worked summers as a chaplain at national parks. Though I love to preach, I could never attempt 45 sermons a year. I envy the creativity of pastors who are able to do so regularly, just as I envy the ability of Michael Jinkins to write so many “Thinking Out Loud” weekly messages over the years.

    My spiritual pathway led from a chaplaincy at a hospital for the terminally ill (and finding amazing depth and even solace while holding those who were dying), to a five-year fellowship in psychoanalytic training in New York City. Add decades of marriage and raising children, directing three pastoral counseling centers in Manhattan at the same time, countless years of my own intensive training analysis, and additional years of spiritual direction - what life experiences can one include or exclude since each and every day shapes one’s spirit to attend to the hints and whispers of that great mystery we audaciously refer to as God?

    Over the years I’ve learned, with help from Rabbi Abraham Heschel, to be suspicious about creeds and dogmas, insofar as they claim to formulate rather than allude to a power that may only be illuminated and never indicated with any hope of precision. Far too often, the ego takes the words of creed and dogma as literal statements of truth, and in such cases dogma ends up being flat, narrow and shallow. Much of my own inspiration is found in dreams, in writing poetry, in walking along a path in quiet woods or in spontaneous prayer at the ocean’s edge.

    A very wise chief psychiatric supervisor once told a group of us to never place upon a patient an expectation that they would grow or change, as our unvoiced need to see such changes would inevitably create resistance to change in those we wished to help. He advised that if we had a need to see change, then buy a plant.

    Not too many years ago, a small group of clergy and laity met with me to review my ministry. The meeting opened with prayer and then a complaint by one of the pastors that the previous Sunday the man who was to read Scripture had arrived only fifteen minutes before the procession was to begin. This lay elder apologized to the pastor by saying that he and his wife had been out all night, as they were members of a group of swingers (as in participants at group sex parties). The pastor said he wished the man had never revealed this news, as now he could never again allow him to participate in worship.

    On the other hand, I heard this lay elder as presenting a very personal opening for later investigation, sensing what he revealed as possibly a form of confession. How often do we allow our own judgmental voices to close rather than open doors of inquiry? But my task, in my capacity as a therapist, is far easier than those who are pastors.

    First of all, I’ve had years of advanced training following a doctorate, hundreds of hours of supervision and personal analysis. Second, the boundaries are much tighter and in some ways more limited. I never go to dinner with a patient. I don’t even ask “How are you today?” as that begins a session on the level of social norms.

    Second, I know we each protect our deepest suffering with various levels of denial, pretense and persona. We far too often present ourselves as we think others wish us to be in the hope of finding approval. (Oh what a web we weave to prevent real, honest encounter.) Without the “I-Thou,” almost always accompanied by strong emotion and tears, we seem to be fencing rather than touching. In my office I keep a small statue of the Hindu god Ganesha, the god of resolving resistances. Looking at Ganesha from time to time reminds me to be aware, if not lessen, my own resistances to personal encounter in the moment.

    Only through God’s grace are we able to get out of our own way and notice that opening where meaningful relevance and ultimate mystery can be approached, affirmed and shared with others. I try to treasure those few seconds when I wake in the early morning and do not yet know my name. I also try to meditate upon my personal need to ask for and to offer forgiveness, and then to make time for gratitude at the beginning and close of the day. Without compassion for our own journey, without spending time in rapport with our soulfulness, what do we really have to offer to others?

  • Me, Myself, and My Cell Phone

    by Michael Jinkins | Aug 02, 2016

    Karen SchlackBY KAREN SCHLACK

    Editor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by the Rev. Karen Schlack (pictured). Karen is the Pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Elgin, Illinois. She is also a Louisville Seminary alum (MDiv ’04), a member of Louisville Seminary’s President’s Roundtable and a member of Louisville Seminary’s Caldwell Society.

    My little idol runs on a battery. Its screen lights up. It obeys my command. It can provide me with just about anything. Friends. Information. Texts. My little idol is ALWAYS there. I keep it with me. I gaze at it. I spend hours with it. When I don’t have it, I feel lost.

    Familiar? Sherry Turkle’s recent book, Reclaiming Conversation (Penguin Press, 2015), contains hundreds of interviews with persons of all ages. In her book she noticed that the subjects of her interviews prefer the sense of community that social media offers. They are willing to settle for relationships and community online because it comes without the hazards of a real-world community. In the world she studied, there is a deep disappointment with human beings, who are flawed and forgetful, needy and unpredictable. The world our cell phones deliver is not wired to behave this way.

    Conversations, on the other hand, are messy. Especially family conversations. Turkle describes the family cell phone dilemmas as a vicious circle. Children can’t get their parent’s attention away from their parents’ cell phones. So parents give their children phones. Children take refuge in their phones. Parents use their children’s cell phone distraction as permission to keep their own phones out as much as they wish.

    Meanwhile, on college campuses, students practice continuous partial attention. The “rule of three” is used at meals. One must make sure enough people are participating in a group conversation before sneaking a peek at one’s cell phone.

    If we look over the top of our screens, we might observe some “real-world” facts. Human bonding begins when a mother gazes into the eyes of her infant. Eye contact is the most powerful path to intimacy. Being listened to by a real human being in our physical presence is the most precious thing we experience. Full attention to one thing (or person) has advantages.  Nothing gets done very well when it is buried in a pile of other somethings that are all done at the same time.

    Our world is crying out for conversation. Connection is a poor substitute. We live in a nation where almost everyone is connected, but more young adults (ages 18-34) are living at home with their parents than getting married. Baby boomers are far less engaged now than their predecessors were at the same age 20 years ago.

    We gray-haired folk who are better educated, financially resourced, and have decades of experience under our belts could put down our phones, stop trying to stay young, and rally to help people who actually are. Give your idol a rest and think about it. Jesus would smile. Look up from your phone, and see!

  • Martin and Paul Speak to the Church

    by Michael Jinkins | Jul 26, 2016


    Amariah McIntoshEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by the Rev. Dr. Amariah McIntosh (pictured) (MDiv ’01, DMin ’14). Amariah is Pastor of Cleaves Memorial CME Church in Evansville, Indiana. She also serves as President of the Louisville Seminary Alum Board of Directors.

    The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered a sermon on November 4, 1956, at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. The title of the sermon is Paul’s Letter to American Christians. He uses the form of a New Testament Pauline epistle to challenge the American church. He assumes Paul’s voice and questions whether Americans’ “spiritual progress has been commensurate with your scientific progress.” Dr. King says:

    "Let me rush on to say something about the church. Americans, I must remind you, as I have said to so many others, that the church is the Body of Christ. So when the church is true to its nature, it knows neither division nor disunity. But I am disturbed about what you are doing to the Body of Christ. They tell me that in America you have within Protestantism more than two hundred and fifty-six denominations. The tragedy is not so much that you have such a multiplicity of denominations, but that most of them are warring against each other with a claim to absolute truth. This narrow sectarianism is destroying the unity of the Body of Christ. You must come to see that God is neither a Baptist nor a Methodist; He is neither a Presbyterian nor an Episcopalian. God is bigger than all of our denominations. If you are to be true witnesses for Christ, you must come to see that, America."

    Although we are now into the second decade of the 21st century, and sixty years after Dr. King preached this sermon, we must be mindful that division is still rampant in the church. Our divisions are experienced in many ways. Not only are our divisions inter-denominational they are intra-denominational. We tend to look for ways to divide. We divide over membership, polity, doctrine, liturgy, politics, gender and sexuality. No matter what you come up with, what you introduce, how you feel about ministry and the direction it should go, it tends to divide more than it unites.

    During this political season, the church has not been exempt from the rancor and hatred that has become part of the national discourse. Denominational infighting has reared its ugly head in national conventions, churches have split and gone in different directions, and ultimately the Body of Christ has become more broken and fractured.

    Martin recognized that division is a cancer, a deadly disease that when allowed to spread wreaks havoc and destruction among the people of God. His ministry and advocacy was rooted in the belief that love, rather than hate, is what will make a difference in this world. Martin wants the modern/postmodern church to understand that when one Christian or one denomination claims to have what others do not have, issues of superiority and envy are introduced. When this happens, the church of Jesus Christ becomes ripe for division and separation and not unity.

    Dr. King closes his sermon with these words:

    “I must bring my writing to a close now. Timothy is waiting to deliver this letter, and I must take leave for another church. But just before leaving, I must say to you, as I said to the church at Corinth, that I still believe that love is the most durable power in the world. Over the centuries men have sought to discover the highest good. This has been the chief quest of ethical philosophy. This was one of the big questions of Greek philosophy. The Epicurean and the Stoics sought to answer it; Plato and Aristotle sought to answer it. What is the summum bonum of life? I think I have an answer America. I think I have discovered the highest good. It is love. This principle stands at the center of the cosmos. As John says, ‘God is love.’ He who loves is a participant in the being of God. He who hates does not know God.”

    Martin and Paul agree that love is the more excellent way. Jesus says, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35, NRSV)

  • There is No Free Will

    by Michael Jinkins | Jul 19, 2016


    Robert ReedEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by Robert Reed (pictured), a Louisville Seminary Honorary Life Trustee.

    Thomas was waiting for me at the corner of President and Biltmore. Thomas is a single twenty-year-old father living in subsidized housing about two blocks from a bustling drug trade corner in Cincinnati. He does construction in season. Right now he is out of work but going to concrete finishing trade school. How did Thomas miss becoming enmeshed in the drug scene within two blocks away and the easy ticket to fast money? Rodney Christian, the director of Christian education at Third Presbyterian Church, which is located about 10 blocks away, suggested I meet with Thomas. He may be one of the youth of the East Westwood neighborhood that might be helped. “Mr. Rodney” has been saving young men for 25 years.

    Wendy's would be our lunch place, and over the next 90 minutes I would listen. Thomas’ parents separated when he was young, and he lived with a very rigid, alcoholic, disciplinarian father who became physical when he drank. Thomas left home at 15 to live with his mother. She was not the strict disciplinarian, so Thomas dropped out of school and became a father; he has a son. Family life was good for this teenage couple, at least while the construction work lasted. When Thomas’ job ended at the last construction site, his girlfriend found the greener grass, and the relationship ended. "I never felt lower than that time of my life," said Thomas. Surely this would be a good time for him to go for the easy money. He did not.

    What kept Thomas from taking the easy road just two blocks down the street? He faced a difficult decision, and this time he chose wisely. Once per month, about 40 young men meet for breakfast and discussion at Third Pres. Thomas and Mr. Rodney worship here. One recent Saturday morning, Mr. Rodney posed this question from the Cain and Able story. “Am I my brother's keeper?” Willie, one of the older, wiser counselors and father of three boys, responded, “One always has the freedom to make a decision.” Willie was a staunch defender of the old free will school.

    On the way home that day, I puzzled over this answer. I kept returning to Thomas. Did he really have freedom to choose? Stephen Cave, a philosopher and author of Immortality: The Quest to Live Forever and How it Drives Civilization, wrote in the June issue of The Atlantic that there is no such thing as free will (“There is No Such Thing as Free Will”, June 2016). Some of us still believe we make choices independently. Today it may be naïve to believe in this old Church School dictum. But Cave (and, in my reading beyond Cave, he is not alone here) declares that free choice is an illusion. Our choices are determined by external forces. According to Cave, Libertarianism is dead and determinism reigns, but there are many opinions in between. But what happens when we jettison this concept? We are taught that our decisions have consequences and carry with them responsibility. If choice carries no responsibility, do we choose differently?

    According to Cave, psychologists (and he cites several interesting studies)  have proven that people are more prone to cheating and stealing when they no longer believe in free will. It would seem that with choice there is responsibility to make the morally correct choice. When I hear moral, I still think of God. When relieved of this oversight that is implied by choosing carefully (God is watching), one is now free to do just whatever seems most self-serving. The illusion of free will carries with it the illusion that someone really cares what happens. If we can just ignore God, as this seems to be the popular/secular thing to do today, why not just dial back the moral responsibility as well? In fact, we probably are not shocked when we read in that same June issue of The Atlantic, that only 2% of Donald Trump’s claims are true, according to PolitiFact. No one seems to care either.

    So, back to Thomas. He faces very difficult decisions. He is alone in the world. He still has respect for his strict father, but he is no longer in his life. What is implied is this: Mr. Rodney listens to me and cares about what happens. And what If Thomas fails to complete the concrete finishing course; what next? It would seem his choice is not free. There certainly are determinants here. The drug scene still beckons. Maybe all his decisions (and ours) are determined even before we leave the womb. I would agree, Mr. Cave, there are no free choices.

  • Shedding Greed

    by Michael Jinkins | Jul 12, 2016


    Grace Winn EllisEditor’s note: Today’s “Thinking Out Loud” blog post is guest-written by teacher and playwright Grace Winn Ellis (pictured), who is the daughter of the late Dr. Albert Curry Winn, president of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary from 1966 to 1973.

    A few years ago I participated in a medical mission trip to Haiti. Since I do not have any medical training, my role was to help count and label pills the night before we held a clinic, and the next day, to give out numbered cards, take blood pressure, and hand out worm pills and hand sanitizer.

    When we arrived to set up our first clinic on the grounds of a church, about twenty people—most of them elderly—were waiting outside on benches.  Many had walked two or three hours to get there. Once we set up the areas for consultations and the pharmacy, people began to press forward. A man from the local village took dirty tattered bills (worth maybe a quarter) from each person as he or she was given a card.

    More people came, and everything moved fairly smoothly until the noon break.  At that point, our driver told us that we should leave by 2 p.m. because the water in the stream we had forded was rising. It was clear that we would have to leave before we could see everyone who was waiting.

    When this was announced to the crowd, pandemonium broke out. There was pushing and shoving and yelling. The “money-changer,” as I called him, tried to direct the flow, occasionally calling to the front someone who had just arrived. Our check-in table was nearly overrun.

    Although I wasn’t really afraid for my safety, I was distressed by the anarchy and commotion. I did not blame these Haitian people. Instead, I felt that I had witnessed something fundamental to human nature. When a resource is valuable, when there is not enough to go around, and when there is no fair set of rules for distribution, anybody will put up a fight. I remember feeling and acting the same way at an airport counter after a flight had been canceled.

    My experience of chaos at the clinic gave me a new perspective on the stories of Jesus’ healing miracles. Those crowds were surely pushing and shoving. And Jesus couldn’t just settle down in one village until he healed everyone. He was on the move. So people called out loudly from the side of the road, climbed up into sycamore trees, sneaked up and touched the hem of his garment, and even removed the roof of a house to lower their friend on a stretcher. No wonder Jesus was worn out and kept slipping off into the hills to pray.

    This kind of struggle among those who have next to nothing is understandable. What is less excusable is the behavior of those of us who have enough. Although we have plenty, we constantly worry about keeping what we’ve got. Thinking about this, I felt a spotlight shining on many of Jesus’ teachings. Stop trying so hard to hold onto your stuff, he keeps saying. When you’re obsessed with what you have, you can’t leave your nets beside the lake, walk away, and follow me. You can’t accept the invitation to the banquet. And you’ll waste your energy building bigger barns to hold your bounty.

    The point is not that the poor need our help—although they certainly do.  The point is that we need to divest ourselves of the things that consume so much of our time and energy. As we say in parts of the South, we need to “get shed” of them.

    The concept sounds simple but, of course, the action is far from easy. Because if we don’t store up for ourselves treasure on earth, if we don’t fight to get our fair share, we are denying a basic human instinct—part of the struggle for survival. But that is not the whole story. As Rebecca Solnit writes in her book A Paradise Built in Hell, sometimes calamities unleash a different impulse—to act together as a community, taking care of each other. The major influence on Dorothy Day’s life was the outpouring of love she saw after the San Francisco earthquake. Following Jesus means tapping into this kind of compassion. It means trusting God to remake us, to set us free from selfishness and greed.

  • Falling in Love All Over Again

    by Michael Jinkins | Jul 05, 2016

    Melanie HardisonBY MELANIE HARDISON
    Editor’s note: Today’s blog post is guest-written by Melanie Hardison (pictured), a dual-degree Master of Divinity/Master of Arts in Marriage and Family Therapy student at Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary.

    Have you ever fallen in love? Have you ever fallen in love a second time? As church-nerd as it sounds, I have fallen in love with the wider denominational church all over again – hook, line, and sinker. Now, I’m a seminary student, you say. Shouldn’t I already be in love with the church? Yes. I have been part of and in love with the church all of my life. And yet, sometimes you experience love in a way that makes you fall hard, all over again, and that is what happened to me at the June 2016 meeting of the 222nd General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), in Portland, Oregon.

    I remember attending my very first GA, more than 20 years ago. As a YAD (youth advisory delegate), I remember feeling absolutely enamored as I walked around the assembly, explored the exhibit hall, and engaged in dialogue and debate in committee meetings and plenary sessions. It was painful at times and uplifting at times, a tangible example that what we so often do in ministry is hold both pain and joy in tension together. That first GA sparked my journey of more fully understanding the breadth and depth of our national and global church. Later, after college, I found my way to the national church and served with the Presbyterian Mission Agency for 15 years.

    So I’ve had an entire career in the church. How and why do I find myself falling in love with it all over again? Maybe it’s because I was away from the national church for a few years. Maybe it’s because we were in lovely, spirited Portland. Maybe it’s because the church is experiencing a time of renewal. Maybe it’s because I was there in a purely learning and helping capacity.1 Maybe it’s because I reconnected with long-lost friends and made new ones. Maybe God is ready for me to be in a new place. Whatever the reason, I found a surprising amount of hope and inspiration and grace at General Assembly, and it is giving me life!

    For starters, this General Assembly made history several times, which was deeply moving to witness in person. The assembly adopted of the Confession of Belhar, adding to our Book of Confessions for the first time a confession that grew out of the Global South – particularly apartheid South Africa.2 The assembly elected our first Co-Moderators, two women (on the 60th anniversary of the ordination of women) who are modeling not only leadership in partnership but leadership in interracial partnership (one is African-American and one is white). And the assembly elected the Rev. Dr. J. Herbert Nelson II as our new Stated Clerk, a Louisville Seminary alum and the first African-American elected to this position. So many other stories inspired me, too, including the story of the woman who took a bus for three days to attend General Assembly, and the story of the Hispanic/Latino-a Caucus which served meals in a Portland homeless shelter rather than planning a banquet for its own constituents. The list of stories goes on.

    While I was inspired by stories and historic moments, I’m also aware that what I brought to GA made a difference in my experience. As a student and a volunteer, I detached myself from overtures, issues, and outcomes and adopted a posture of pure learning and discovery. I allowed myself to simply be there as a learner and a helper. And in doing so I found the Spirit moving in surprising and unexpected places.

    In the Presbyterian church, our corporate process is designed for democratic participation, our communal life together is designed for sharing and fellowship, our common purpose is discerning the mind of the Spirit – and yet, in all of their intentionality, in what ways are these thwarted by individual attitudes, attachments, and agendas? For me, adopting a posture of openness and hope paved the way for a deeply meaningful experience, a falling in love all over again with our big, wide church, in the way we love those closest to us, in the way we are called to love all of God’s people: fully accepting of brokenness and wounds, “warts and all.”

    I sense a fresh spirit of new life moving in our church, even though we have been hearing for years that the church is in decline. The strong yet simple pronouncement of our new Stated Clerk, Dr. Nelson, continues to ring in my ears: "We are not dead, we are reforming, we are alive, and we are well."

    We are alive, and we are well. Thanks be to God.

    1I attended as part of a course entitled “Presbyterianism: Principles and Practices,” taught by Cliff Kirkpatrick (Louisville Seminary), Paul Hooker (Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary), and Jerry van Marter (San Francisco Theological Seminary). I also served as a Student Assistant with the Office of the General Assembly.

    2For a study guide, see Race and Reconciliation: Confessions of 1967 and Belhar, by Cliff Kirkpatrick, LPTS Professor of World Christianity and Ecumenical Studies and former Stated Clerk of the PC(USA).

  • Cherry Picking Faith

    by Michael Jinkins | Jun 28, 2016

    Cherry Picking FaithSomeone - I won't say who to protect the guilty - recently sent me an outrageously funny parody of a worship service that's making the rounds on YouTube. The service purports to be in a "spiritual but not religious" congregation.

    The preacher who presides is outrageously hip and cool. He is relevant to the point of the ridiculous. The person offering his testimony in the service is so utterly bizarre he defies description, sharing thoughts he has written down apparently under the influence of some "special" mushrooms or something equally hallucinogenic.

    I laughed till I wept. But, like a number of things I personally may enjoy, I will not recommend the video because it goes well over any acceptable boundaries of decorum. I won't encourage you to watch it. I won't provide a link to it. And I will only obliquely reference it here. Just to make a point.

    During the "sermon" in the video, the extremely appreciative congregation (which is as hip, cool and relevant as their pastor) "ooh" and "aah," nodding their heads and swaying with joy when the preacher stresses how different their church is from merely religious institutions. His sermon provides a litany of disconnected thoughts, disconnected not only from any clear coherent message, but from each other. The preacher cherry-picks first from one then from another well-known representative of spiritual thought, traversing a variety of sages and celebrities from different faiths and spiritual traditions. One quote abuts another in a veritable train wreck of ideas all of which were chosen either because the quotes sound cool or because the preacher wants to be identified with the sages and celebrities he's quoting, not because any particular quotation contributes to an actual engagement with a deep way of being human, spiritual or faithful.

    There's no way any description can do justice to how funny the video is, or how thoroughly it made me cringe to watch it. In the cause of "not being religious," the preacher and the congregation have reduced the meaning and content of their faith to something so thin, so superficial it would make a bumper sticker look profound by comparison.*

    Now, I want to get this straight: I don't particularly care for the word "religious" myself and probably have as much suspicion of organized religion as anyone around, though I also have deep respect for the faith that is conveyed in and through religious institutions.

    My Reformed theological roots make me suspicious of "religion" on theological grounds. Karl Barth, the greatest Reformed theologian of the twentieth century, wrote one of the finest sustained critiques of religion ever conceived in his brilliant theological commentary on St. Paul's Letter to the Romans. Barth differentiates faith in the God revealed in Jesus of Nazareth from the human collection of rites, ceremonies and practices commonly called "religion." Barth's argument is that religion, like every other aspect of human life and society, is fallen and stands in need of God's redemption. No religion can ascend a ladder "up" to God. In fact, from a Reformed perspective, religion can lead us as far astray from God as anything else in this fallen world.

    Religion can and often does simply enshrine our tendency to make "gods" of ourselves, which is why, although I am an official representative of a major Protestant mainline denomination, I am often as disillusioned as the most jaded among us of "institutional" or "organized religion." It is so easy for us to sacrifice humanity on the altar of institutions, religious ones included. However, I have also been hesitant to align myself uncritically with those who say they are "spiritual but not religious."

    The "spiritual but not religious" critiques often feel just a little too blithe and facile, a little too cool and trendy, to ring entirely true. I am often reminded of C.S. Lewis' senior demon, Screwtape, in The Screwtape Letters (1942) recommending that his nephew and novice demon, Wormwood, not bother to try to convince the new convert that Christianity is illogical. This is a dangerous strategy, Screwtape tells Wormwood, because once the new believer's mind is fully engaged he may discover the deep rationality of Christian faith. Rather, Screwtape advises Wormwood just to convince the new believer that Christianity is out-of-fashion with the trendiest people. Appeal to the convert's vanity, not his intellect, says Screwtape.

    These days far too many of the arguments against religion, in general, and the church and Christian faith, in particular, seem to follow Screwtape's script.

    When pressed to describe myself, I tend to avoid saying I'm religious. Instead I say that I am a person of faith. What I mean is this: I try, with only sporadic and moderate success, to follow Jesus of Nazareth while also trusting God's mercy to be more effectual than my faith or ability to follow. With every passing year, while I find Jesus more and more fascinating, more provocative, more beautiful and worthy of devotion and imitation, I also understand Jesus less and less. The mystery of Jesus of Nazareth grows larger and more profound the older I get. Thus, I tend to depend more on the vast treasury of Christian wisdom and experience than on my own individual experience. This treasury, sometimes referred to as "tradition," is deep and rich. And it is as conflicted about what we should call the "Christian thing" (religious, spiritual, faith, practice, devotion, or mysticism) as any contemporary seeker.

    The Reformed tradition to which I belong is deep and rich itself. And, in contrast to sectarian versions of Christianity, the Reformed tradition is invested in insuring that we value the larger Christian traditions from across history and around the world, from Irenaeus to Martin Luther King, Jr., from Gregory of Nyssa to Lady Julian of Norwich and Desmond Tutu, from Justin Martyr to Sor Juana Inéz de la Cruz to Gustavo Gutiérrez. According to the Reformed tradition, to be narrowly sectarian betrays the Spirit of Christ.

    Being a Christian means we get to tap into a particular and sustained "way" of being human and being faithful in God's world, a "way" which bears traditions and practices and even counter-traditions from one generation to another, and has drawn on renewals and reformations and counter-reformations for over twenty centuries. The variety of Christian faith understandings is further enriched by other deep "ways" of being faithful and human. Because we know the God who is Lord of all creation, we are free to partake of wisdom which comes to us through cultures and faiths other than our own.

    So I want to second the motion presently on the table that being a Christian does not have to mean we are exclusivist. Nor does being a Christian mean that we have to be card-carrying members of only one faith "club," especially a club that defines itself by fiercely opposing and demeaning other faiths. Nor does being a Christian require us to swear fealty to an institutional brand that secures its survival at the expense of humanity.

    We worship the free God, the living God. This God is passionately devoted to making us free so that we can live before we die.

    There is much to applaud in the various attempts to speak of the life of the Spirit in ways that cross traditional boundaries. There is much to applaud in learning from other faiths and practices. And there is much to applaud in the nurture of what we sometimes call "multiple faith identity" (that is, the conscious engagement and identification with more than just one faith tradition).

    Mature faith can be nourished by various streams of very different rivers of thought, very different ways of understanding God and humanity and the meaning of life. But mature faith grows when planted deep in fertile soil. Seeds sown on thin soil, as Jesus tells us, wither under the blaze of the noonday sun. Mature faith requires something more than slick slogans and cherry-picked smatterings of various philosophies and faith traditions however cool they may sound.

    I remember one day visiting a close friend who then taught middle school. Now, first, I want to say that anyone who teaches middle school students deserves the highest civilian honor our nation can bestow, and maybe a Purple Heart too. Walking around her classroom that afternoon, I saw cheerful posters intended to inspire students with lofty passages from famous philosophers. I can't remember the quotes, but a poster offering a quote from the French Existentialist Albert Camus hung next to one from Plato next to another from William James, and so on, all around her classroom.

    I told her I loved the quotes. But, I said, "You know, lifting them out of context like this, and putting them on the walls next to each other is really pretty incoherent. Each one of these philosophers is saying something he or she believed to be true, but they are saying it in their own terms from their own historical and philosophical contexts. And, frankly, they often contradict each other in really important ways."

    "What do you suggest?" She asked, as only a weary middle school teacher can ask when, at the end of a long day, she is trying to be patient with a tedious and pedantic friend.

    "I would suggest you tell the kids these quotes are really a sort of philosophical sampler or smorgasbord. Keep the quotes, but say something like this to the students: 'Camus sounds like he might be saying something similar to Plato, but really, they are in an argument, a centuries-old argument, about the meaning of life. It's an argument you might want to jump into the middle of yourself."

    I don't recall if she took my advice, which is just as well, but we are still friends.

    There are lots of times, listening to some very popular spiritual speakers (like the one parodied on YouTube), when it becomes clear that they aren't really engaging in any deep, coherent faith traditions or sustained understandings of life at all, but are just doing what John Lennon and Paul McCartney say they are doing in their song, "Michelle," singing: "These are words that go together well."

    Well, maybe, these words go together well. Maybe not. But, here's what I know. When the scorching sun comes out, seeds planted in thin soil just die where they lie.

    Learning from various faith traditions and philosophies of life is very much an aspect of the age in which we live, this secular age, which, as Charles Taylor has observed, is predicated on the power to choose. I, personally, believe the impulse to cross boundaries of faith and philosophy can enrich one's life immeasurably. But, when we engage in varied "ways," we owe it to ourselves and we owe it to the faith traditions in which we engage and from which we borrow, to engage them deeply and with integrity.

    That takes time, attention, discipline, respect, and a willingness to be teachable, to possess what Zen master Shunryū Suzuki once called "the beginner's mind." It's certainly a lot more than cherry-picking cool statements from different spiritual or philosophical voices and forcing them into an incoherent mishmash. And it is a lot more rewarding.

    * A faith that can laugh at itself is, I think, a healthy and more mature faith; and a faith that can't take a joke is, I believe, pretty insecure. Thus, I'm always on the lookout for good religious satire that can help us see the ridiculous in ourselves and in our beliefs. Recently The Washington Post ran a story on a satirical website Babylon Bee, which is what The Onion might look like if it were written by and for Evangelical Christians. Among its headlines was the following: "Mountain Climber Recovering After Decision to Let Go and Let God." The website reminds me somewhat of that great source of religious satire The Wittenburg Door, although, frankly, nothing else has ever really taken the place of The Door at its best.

  • Like Steps to a New Dance

    by Michael Jinkins | Jun 21, 2016

    San Fran Zen CenterOne of the more interesting tidbits of information to have trickled out of leadership research in recent years tells us that people who are quickest to speak up in a group tend to give the impression that they are leadership material.

    Of course, this only works up to a point. There is a line which can be crossed here between appearing knowledgeable and just looking like a know-it-all. If you manage to stay on the right side of that line you can influence people. If you cross it, you can bore them or even turn them against you.

    For years I've made a practice of observing the ways people in leadership positions communicate, whether in formal presentations or small groups, not just with what they say, but how they say it, and the ways in which their approach to communication influences those they lead. I'm still unpacking an experience that occurred in San Francisco a few months ago because I'd never witnessed anything quite like it before.

    While in the area for a denominational meeting and some visits with seminary supporters, I had a Saturday morning free, so I took a taxi to the San Francisco Zen Center. The Dharma Talk (think sermon, then forget about anything sermon-like) that day was dedicated to a celebration of the life of the late Mitsu Suzuki, the wife of the founder of the Zen Center, Shunryū Suzuki.* The abbot was giving the talk.

    The room was crowded with Buddhist monks, other Buddhist practitioners, and some of the simply curious. All were greeted at the door with the same quiet, warm welcome. Chairs lined the back of the room while the remainder of the floor space was occupied by people on cushions sitting in the classic lotus or half-lotus positions. The abbot also sat in the lotus position, his notes before him. He began to speak. For the next thirty or more minutes, he related what he had learned from Mitsu Suzuki. The stories were wonderful, but it was the abbot's delivery of the talk which stuck with me.

    He spoke in a clear, gentle voice, just loud enough to be heard. Each word was weighed, each phrase spoken as though from a center of absolute calm. No word was wasted. No word was rushed, nor did one word crowd another or try to step on the heels of its neighbors. A sentence or two, sometimes three, would be spoken, deliberately, thoughtfully, as though the words were precious grains of rice each of which deserved individual attention. When the abbot came to the end of a thought, he would pause, sometimes for a long time, sometimes closing his eyes in silence, sitting with the moment calmly until he was prepared to speak again.

    The rhythm and modulation of the abbot's talk were remarkable. His listeners leaned in to hear him.

    He would gather his thoughts in silence, then speak. Speak. And speak. Now pause ... Pause ... Pause ............ And then speak again.

    We all waited together for the words to come. And because we all waited together - speaker and listeners - we were joined in an event of holy conversation, a kind of conversation that was not driven by a compulsion to speak up, to convince or compel, to argue, or persuade, or manipulate others verbally, but by a desire to attune ourselves to the deepest level of hearing. The entire Dharma Talk was a living and communal expression of Suzuki-roshi's admonition: "Moment after moment, completely devote yourself to listening to your inner voice."**

    I would say his approach was the very antithesis of our typical Western approach to communication, but that's far too limited an assessment. His approach contrasts with many Eastern approaches as well.

    The abbot's approach also runs contrary to that tendency some of us have to talk (and talk and talk and talk) until we figure out what we want to say, or to "hold forth" until someone else has no choice but to interrupt our soliloquy just to get a word in edgewise.

    The spareness of the abbot's words magnified their value. His comments never drew attention to himself unnecessarily, never seemed motivated by anything except the goal of honoring his subject. It seemed that the words he spoke proceeded from some center of wholeness, as though spoken from a place of solitude. Listening, I couldn't help but think of the similarities between the abbot's way of talking and the admonitions of the early Christian Desert Fathers to speak only when absolutely necessary and only from inner silence.

    Even as I sit here writing these comments this morning, I can conjure up the tangible sense of quiet calm that the abbot gathered around him like his robe, the peace and calm from which he spoke words of calm and peace. I can hear the pace of his words, each one placed with care like a foot upon a forest trail without a hint of haste, without a trace of anxiety. Conscious. Awake. Mindful.

    The abbot's approach to communication impressed me deeply, but it hasn't changed my preaching or public speaking style, not really. I will rely on the classical forms of homiletical rhetoric that brought me to the dance to take me home again. However, the abbot has profoundly affected my approach to communicating in a variety of other groups.

    What I have discovered is this: when I try to do what the abbot did, slowing down, listening more mindfully, weighing my words with deliberate care, pausing, not rushing to comment, I become much more aware of the impulses that drive me and the spirit of the group with whom I am in communication. I tend to create mental space to feel the anxiety when and if it rises in a conversation, especially when it is operating inside of me. I sense better when I am taking something personally. I sort through my feelings better, more able and readier to identify my own defensiveness when it arises.

    Slowing down the pace of my comments, choosing with greater care the phrases, pausing to gather my thoughts, listening until I am sure I have understood before speaking: all of this can drive some folks in a group a little nuts sometimes, especially if they are pretty anxious. But the good of this approach to communication far outweighs any momentary frustrations.

    Breathe. Pause. Listen. Speak, speak. Breathe. P A U S E. Listen. Breathe. Speak: Like steps in a new dance, a dance well worth learning, for leaders who have something to say and who value the relational context of communication.

    *Shunryū Suzuki's thought is widely known because of the collection of his teachings published under the title, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind (1970), a brilliant text grounded in the author's deep understanding of Soto Zen.
    **David Chadwick, a student of Suzuki-roshe, has written an illuminating biography of his teacher, Crooked Cucumber: The Life and Zen Teaching of Shunryū Suzuki (1999). This passage appears on p. 59.
    **Photo taken by Michael Jinkins at the San Francisco Zen Center, February 2016.

  • Pour Balm On Us; Help Us to Heal

    by Michael Jinkins | Jun 17, 2016

    Editor's note: Occasionally on Fridays, "Thinking Out Loud" readers receive special blog posts. Due to the need for Michael Jinkins to be with his family this week following the recent death of his father, Dr. Jinkins asked Louisville Seminary Trustee Rev. Dr. Scott Black Johnston to share with the Louisville Seminary community his reaction to the June 11, 2016, shooting at an Orlando, Florida, nightclub where 49 people were killed and 53 more were wounded. Rev. Johnston is the Senior Pastor at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York City. Please keep the victims of this horrible event as well as their families in your prayers.

    Dear Friends in Christ,

    Orlando PicOver the last few days—in the wake of the mass shooting in Orlando—I have had a difficult time reading the news, a difficult time making it through each wrenching sentence. I have felt alternatively numb and angry, bewildered and so very, very sad.

    I have been making a little list of things that I know. It helps me to do this. When the ground about me is shaking, it helps me to write down my surest convictions—the places where I personally feel solid and certain. Here is my short list:

    ● I know that there is no easy solace that can be offered to the friends and family members of those murdered. I know this will hurt for a long, long time.

    ● I know we can do better as a country when it comes to enacting and enforcing sane gun legislation.

    ● I know that God’s heart breaks over these deranged acts of violence.

    ● I know God loves the LGBT community just as much as God loves the straight community.

    ● I know that the forces of evil despise love. They want to hurt love. This is the sad truth of Good Friday.

    ● I also know that love—the bloodied, stubborn, refuse-to-stay-dead love Christ offers to the world—will eventually triumph. This is the deep promise of Easter morning.

    ● I know that prayer matters.

    In moments like this, some say the promise of prayer is weak and ineffective. They argue that prayer is a docile response to atrocity. I disagree. At times like this prayer is not the only action worth taking but, make no mistake, prayer is an action worth taking.

    Prayer focuses us. Prayer guides us. Prayer grounds us.

    Will you pray with me?

    O God, the only true source of wholeness and peace, in a world bearing fresh wounds,
        we ask for your help and guidance.

    As we move through this hard time, please endow us with:
        the compassion to embrace our LGBT neighbors,
        the courage to bear one another's burdens,
        and hearts unafraid to weep with those who weep.

    As we consider our response to this tragedy, save us from the desire for vengeance,
        and from the temptation to rejoice in wrongdoing.
    Help us take positive steps, real steps, bold steps toward preventing future massacres.

    Fill us this day with the love of Christ, that we might seek good for all people.
    Let us not be overcome by evil. Help us overcome evil with good.

    Finally, O Lord, pour a balm on us, help us to heal,
        for you alone are our refuge and strength, our help in time of trouble.

    Help us to show in our lives what we proclaim with our lips:
        Good is stronger than evil;
        love is stronger than hate;
        light is stronger than darkness;
        hope is stronger than despair.


    Bless you and all those you love this day.

  • The Dickens of a Fix

    by Michael Jinkins | Jun 14, 2016

    Dickens of a FixAnyone who has attended an event on the challenges facing theological education these days has heard at least one application of a title or a line from Charles Dickens.

    "They were the best of times. They were the worst of times." That was the opening to one address. Of course, many of us will recall the title of Barbara Wheeler's Auburn Theological Seminary report on fundraising, "Great Expectations." There could be other Dickensonian allusions. "Bleak House" comes to mind. And we all know that theological education is in the midst of "Hard Times."

    Someone recently contacted me to say that she had heard from a friend (who's "well-connected") that within the next few years only one-third of theological schools now in existence will survive. Her comment is a great example of what I call "The Peoria Effect" (i.e., once the news gets to whatever is your equivalent of Peoria, the reality has changed). There is significant lag time between the production of new information and its dissemination and digestion. And, usually, by the time the word has gotten around about a social change, the word is no longer accurate. When you combine "The Peoria Effect" with good old-fashioned exaggeration, you can get some pretty outrageous prophecies.

    Yes, theological schools, some venerable ones with storied pasts, have been closing. Others have merged in arrangements that look more like acquisitions than actual partnerships. But, at the same time, new theological schools have been opening.

    Indeed, new approaches to theological education have been emerging at an astonishing pace. These new approaches tend to involve fewer ivy-covered walls. They tend to be far more nimble than their predecessors in their educational programming and much more attentive to the contextual needs of those being educated. Largely because of the emergence of new schools, despite all the shifts, changes and school closures that have occurred over the past decade, the number of member schools in the Association of Theological Schools in the United States and Canada (ATS) has slightly increased. One might be justified in speculating that in contrast to the bleak forecast which tells us that we are witnessing the twilight of theological education, we may be seeing its Renaissance.

    What is becoming clear is that theological schools will be characterized by considerable variety in the coming years, likely more variety than any of us have seen before. Apparently there will be a place for residential seminaries that focus as much on formation through community life as they do on academic prowess, and there will be degree programs that deliver theological education either entirely online or in some sort of hybrid arrangement. But there will be other models too, some of which are only beginning to be imagined.

    Another message that lags behind the facts relates to the "overproduction of ministers to serve existing congregations." The word has gone out far and wide that because so many congregations have closed, there simply will not be enough jobs for seminary graduates in coming years. In certain denominational meetings, the sense of gloom forms a fog so thick you can't see through it. Certainly, there have been losses of congregations and congregants. Significant losses. However, data analysis conducted by the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) indicates that the recent patterns of more persons seeking pastoral calls than pastoral positions being available could reverse.

    One more message that needs to adjust in light of the facts: Sometimes in conversations about the losses in membership of mainline congregations and the decline in applications to mainline seminaries, one will hear that the exception to these trends is among Evangelical and Fundamentalist churches and schools. In fact, according several sources, just about every Christian denomination and school has been seeing similar numerical stresses and declines despite their theological or ideological bent. The exception to this general trend, incidentally, has been in traditionally underserved racial-ethnic minority populations: African American, Latino/a, and Asian. We continue to see numerical growth among church members and seminary applicants in these socio-ethnic and cultural groups. Recent data from ATS suggests a modest growth again in seminary admissions; most of these new students are applying to new specialized professional degree programs.

    So what the Dickens is going on? Where are theological schools headed? Do we still have options that will not undercut the quality of education we expect and need for those going into ministry?

    This last question is the one that keeps me awake at night.

    Dan Aleshire, executive director of ATS and the wisest analyst of theological schools in our time, in his address to participants in the annual Presidential Intensive Leadership Conference quoted something said many years ago by Dutch Leonard, a professor at Harvard Business School. Dr. Leonard famously said: "The central challenge for nonprofit leadership is that mediocrity is survivable."

    To which Dan said: "Maybe no longer is this true."

    Dan is so right about this. Mediocrity is dead, as Tom Friedman said in one of his New York Times columns a couple of years ago (in response to which I wrote an earlier blog). If you want your organization to survive, whatever it does must be excellent. Just "good enough" is no longer good enough.

    That is exactly where the rub comes. A mediocre school is not long for this world. Even great schools have failed. And most of the schools that have failed were still delivering a traditionally strong education to their students.

    I would hazard to guess that many, if not most, of the schools that have stumbled and fallen in the past several years didn't fail because they lacked adequate analytics. Like most businesses that fail, they failed because they didn't do what their analysis told them they needed to do. Some failed because they jumped on what appeared to be a bandwagon headed to success only to discover too late that the solution wasn't the right one for them. Others have attempted to do "business as usual" in an exceptional era, and they simply ran out of operating capital. Others were unwilling for whatever reason to sacrifice their sacred cows for the sake of their mission.

    The seminaries that have flourished have disciplined themselves to make tough choices based on their strategic vision. Furthermore, successful schools in the current environment do not think of adaptation as something they did, but something they do.

    A few days ago a new graduate of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary asked me if I think theological education has a future. I said emphatically "yes."

    Seminaries, as schools dedicated to the preparation of people for pastoral leadership, were a result of the Protestant Reformation and the Roman Catholic Counter-Reformation, and seminaries as we know them today, as graduate-level professional schools, are less than two hundred years old. But provisions to insure the church has well-educated Christian leaders and ministers go back to the Church's patristic age. Delivered in a variety of ways over nearly two thousand years, theological education has undergirded the church's mission and ministry almost since the church's beginning. The form theological education takes, however, has changed over the centuries and will continue to change.

    Theological seminaries are in the Dickens of a fix. But whether any particular school is about to fall victim to the doomsday prophecies of the Ghost of Christmas Future depends, in large measure, on a willingness to make tough decisions to further the school's strategic vision. So, if a guy in a black cloak carrying a scythe is lurking in the neighborhood, we shouldn't cower under the covers.

    Rick Seltzer, “Seminaries Squeezed,” Inside Higher Ed, May 27, 2016, accessed May 29, 2016, https://www.insidehighered.com/news/2016/05/27/traditional-theological-schools-explore-mergers-and-campus-sales-amid-financial?utm_source=Inside+Higher+Ed&utm_campaign=9bc9370ed4-DNU20160527&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_1fcbc04421-9bc9370ed4-198407137

    “2015 – 2016 Annual Data Tables,” Association of Theological Schools in the United States and Canada, accessed May 27, 2016, http://www.ats.edu/uploads/resources/institutional-data/annual-data-tables/2015-2016-annual-data-tables.pdf

  • Ali

    by Michael Jinkins | Jun 07, 2016

    Ali memorialThis week, we will see hundreds of tributes to Muhammad Ali. And in many cases, the tributes will include attempts by their authors to squeeze into the frame of a photo of "the Champ." "That's me," the author is saying, "waving my hands in the background when Muhammad stood beside Dr. King or lifted his arms in victory over an opponent."

    It's natural. And we all want to do it, me included.

    When we witness greatness, real greatness, we want to be identified with it. But maybe we ought simply to find a way, with our own voices and whatever gifts God has given us, to emulate it instead.

    Today's blog is brief, because the camera should stay focused for this moment on Muhammad Ali and what we learned from him if we were paying attention. I will leave it to those who knew him well to tell us the stories we long to hear of this larger-than-life hero, this world-champion fighter for peace.

    As a teacher, I just want to note one thing.

    If Muhammad Ali taught us anything - and he taught us a very great deal - it was that every time a Black child succumbs to self-hatred and every heart of every person of every race does not break, the brutal lies of the bigot claim another day. With his swagger and braggadocio, this beautiful, powerful and devout man proved, first with his fists, and then with his own heart, that love begins in one's own skin, and hatred does not have to be the world's destiny.

    Thank God for Muhammad Ali.

  • My Grandmother's Stoicism

    by Michael Jinkins | May 31, 2016

    "God has not made you steward of the winds."

    (Epictetus, 1st Century A.D. Discourses, Book, I. 1. 11-19)*

    StoicismWe had just come from my grandmother's funeral. I was sitting alone in the den, reflecting on her long life touched periodically and often by sorrows and troubles, struggles, losses and worries, the extraordinary ordinariness of a long human life.

    She was of a generation that simply endured. She lived through her beloved little sister's death at age five of spinal meningitis. She kept a photograph of Pauline and her by her bed for the rest of her life. She endured her parents' divorce just after World War I, in a time when relatively few people got divorces. During the stock market crash of 1929, by then a young wife with her own family just beginning, she witnessed her father lose a fortune. Scratching and saving, as a recent graduate of the San Marcos Teacher's College, she and her husband found a way to make it through the Great Depression and its aftermath raising a family on what wages a two-room school in a one-horse Texas town could afford. She saw children off to the armed services, to business college, and presided over the family store and the farm, and somehow survived her husband's premature death. She just kept enduring. Starting over in her fifties, after his death, taking whatever job she could find (for example, as a "lunch lady" in a public school), caring for her own aged mother, teaching her weekly Sunday school class, leading the Women's Missionary Auxiliary for forty years, and serving as matriarch for her children and children's children and beyond.

    She practiced an untutored Stoicism that beats the pants off of most of the tutored kinds, my own included. But tutoring on the day we buried her was what I needed, as I sat thinking through the portion of her ninety years I knew. So I turned to the bookshelves in my parents' den and found there, among a row of old Harvard Classics, a cracked and foxed volume of Epictetus' Discourses. And I sat down to read.

    There are passages in Epictetus that, with just a few minor alterations, sound just like something my grandmother would have said:

    "We must make the best of what is under our control and leave the rest to God."

    "If we had sense we would never stop praising God."

    "How should we die? Why, as someone who is giving back something that belongs to somebody else, of course."

    I still remember vividly reading that old volume of Epictetus while the rest of the grieving family gathered in the kitchen.

    That was almost twenty years ago. Hard to believe she has been gone that long. There were probably a lot more Stoics in her generation than are around today. Debbie's grandmother was another Stoic I had the good fortune to have known.

    We have been truly lucky to have known people of such ordinary everyday pluck, grit, and courage, and really lucky if we happened to be raised by them.

    Turning to Epictetus that day, I also realized what an advantage it is exploring someone like that tough old first-century Stoic philosopher as an adult over reading him when I was a youth. Reading him as a young person, especially while at school, Epictetus represented just one of several "schools" of philosophical thought, something more to be learned about. Or, worse, his Discourses were simply another Koine Greek text to practice Greek translation on. Now, he has become an indispensable source of wisdom and consolation, someone from whom to learn to live.  Now, it's personal, you might say.

    I've written before on several occasions about the role Stoicism plays in my spiritual and intellectual life. And I will not retrace that path, except to say that I have found deep resonance between Stoicism and biblical faith, not least the teachings and way of Jesus of Nazareth and the writings of Saint Paul. And, it should be added, there are profound similarities between the thought of Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius and the book of Ecclesiastes, and certain streams of Taoism and Zen Buddhism.

    Why should that surprise us? Herein lies the deep wisdom of the world. And we know that we Christians do not have a monopoly on truth. The wisdom of God is not limited to a single culture or continent or faith. Wherever we go in this world, God has been there before us. We should be prepared always, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, to meet the Christ already present.

    Although, of course, I know it is literally impossible, you can almost hear the echo of Jesus (Luke 10:41) in the passage where Epictetus says:

    "But now, although it is in our power to care for one thing only and devote ourselves to but one, we choose rather to care for many things, and to be tied fast to many. ... Wherefore, being tied fast to many things, we are burdened and dragged down by them." (Discourses, Book I. 1. 11-19)

    Can't you almost hear the voice of Jesus saying, "Martha, Martha, you worry and are distracted by so many things. Don't you know that few things are needed, indeed there is only one needful thing?"

    The comment from Epictetus which I used as the epigraph for today's column is drawn from a longer passage in which he makes fun of those who worry and fret because the winds do not favor their sailing. Their plight reminds me of the situation most of us find ourselves in from time to time, standing at a departure gate, crowded, being pushed and shoved by impatient fellow travelers, listening as angry passengers vent their frustrations at the gate agent after being told that the incoming flight has been delayed, pushing back even more your flight's already late departure. "When will the storms blow over? When will the plane be allowed to land? I've got to get to Chicago!" Epictetus is the patient old guy in the toga still sitting calmly in his chair sipping his coffee watching the rain fall outside the terminal window. He knows in his heart and not just in his head that God didn't make us stewards of the wind.

    Epictetus' fundamental teaching is elegantly simple. However much control you may or may not have over the external events of life (nature included), external events need have no control over your own feelings or perceptions or reactions, over indeed the totality of your inner universe he calls "moral purpose." You alone have control over you. Not even the most cruel suffering or threat of death can change that. Nothing can touch your freedom, provided you know what it means to be free. (And this is a subject Epictetus, the freed slave, knew a great deal about). Even if thrown into prison, even if put to death, all your jailer will have is your imprisoned body; all the executioner will possess is your dead body: you remain free. Epictetus sounds almost like St. Paul, when he makes this point himself: "Who is there left then for me to fear?" (Discourses, Book I. xxix. 6-15)

    A few years ago, deep in conversation with a therapist to whom I was then going, after a very long pause, she said: "You really are a Stoic."

    To which I said, "Thank you." And smiled.

    "That wasn't a compliment," she said.

    Well, maybe not in psychological terms. But when it comes to living wisely, when it comes to learning the art of enduring with grace whatever life brings, you really can't do much better. And that's another lesson my grandmother taught me.

    *The edition of Epictetus I prefer is the Loeb Classics, Harvard University Press, edited with English translation by W.A. Oldfather. It provides Oldfather's venerable and serviceable translation opposite the original Greek. Because Epictetus' Discourses are in common street Greek, the very same Koine Greek we meet in the New Testament, anyone with basic seminary Greek should find him very accessible.

  • Ain't No Mountain High Enough

    by Michael Jinkins | May 29, 2016

    Editor's note: Periodically throughout the 2015-2016 academic year, "Thinking Out Loud" readers will receive blog posts that explore concepts of spirituality. We'd love to hear what you have written in your "spirituality notebook." E-mail us!

    Ain't No MountainThe low point in the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus (Mark 9:2-9) occurs when Peter, still on the mountaintop and overwhelmed with the whole experience, says to Jesus: “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.”

    The author of Mark’s Gospel then makes an editorial comment: “He did not know what to say.”

    Maybe not. And not knowing what to say never kept Peter from talking anyway.

    But, whether Peter’s mouth was just running while his brain was in neutral or he actually meant what he said, Peter was articulating the perspective of many people who seek in spirituality an escape from the difficulties of ordinary life, its emotional ups and downs, the trials, sufferings, and inevitable deaths. He seemed to be saying, “This is a wonderful place to be! Let’s stay here! Let’s build dwelling places for Moses, Elijah and Jesus! Let’s start a capital campaign to fund the building of the Transfiguration Center for Peak Spiritual Experiences!” This, again, is the low point in this story, at least in my view.

    I think the high point in this story, incidentally, comes at the very end of the narrative: “As they were coming down the mountain, he [Jesus] ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had arisen from the dead.” Clearly, Jesus’ words on the way down from the mountain mystified Peter even more than his peak experience. You will recall, from other stories in the gospels, that Peter (as well as the other disciples) had a hard time coming to terms with the direction Jesus’ life was headed: betrayal, suffering, rejection and death.

    Mark Epstein, a prolific psychotherapist whose work I have come to admire, tells the story of a client who was struggling with anger issues despite the fact that he was also deeply involved in mindfulness meditation. The client wanted all of life to remain as calm and still and peaceful as he found his periods of formal meditation. He could become very angry when others around him continued to act in ways that upset his expectations. He was even angry that his meditation didn’t finally settle his inner struggles. Epstein says that he “was not just trying to quiet his own mind, he was endeavoring to silence a chaotic early environment …. Instead of using meditation to move between states of storminess and stillness, to let go of one as the other took hold, he tried to use meditation to dominate life.” He wanted life to settle down, and get sorted out once and for all. He wanted life, other people and the various circumstances of daily living to stop being so unpredictable and uncontrollable. [Epstein, Going on Being (New York: Harmony, 2001) p. 94.]

    What this client failed to understand, of course, is that mindfulness is intended to allow us to observe and acknowledge emotions and thoughts without judgement, but also without identifying with those emotions and thoughts, and without clinging compulsively to them. Prayer, meditation and contemplation are not intended to remove us from the world but to prepare us to live in it with greater freedom and compassion. In light of this case, Epstein reflects on the title of a book that Jack Kornfield published in 2000, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry, describing it as “a vivid description of the challenges of incorporating a spiritual awakening into the chaos of everyday life.” (Epstein, Going on Being, 95.) Much that can be said about mindfulness meditation at this point can be said of spirituality, in general, and Christian spirituality, in particular.

    One of the temptations of spirituality is to imagine that there is a time, or a quality of experience, or a place (thin, wilderness, mountaintop or retreat) that will relieve us from the burden of real life, of ordinary life back down in the valleys of existence. Even Peter wanted to stay on the mountain.

    Interestingly, in the story of the Transfiguration, it is the voice of God that breaks the spell. “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him.”

    And, “what,” we may ask, “does the Son of God have to say?”

    As they came down the mountain, the words of Jesus made his followers look toward his death and beyond his death to his resurrection. He reminded them that their lives were not lived on the Mount of Transfiguration. The mount was meant to prepare them to live faithfully in the world.

    An authentic spiritual life does not seek to provide a substitute for the life we live in which bills come due, children get sick, the laundry needs to be done, and repairs to everything have to be made. The spiritual life is ordinary life lived in the Spirit of God, the Spirit of grace, mercy and forgiveness. The spiritual life is not and does not provide an escape from the consciousness that we disappoint ourselves and others, or that they disappoint us. Rather, it prepares us to deal with this life – our life – faithfully, offering all that we are and all that we have to the God from whom all things flow. It prepares us to deal with the realities of life, its continual change, its lack of permanence, and its persistent unsatisfactoriness. It enables us to be the human beings that God created us to be and redeemed us to become in Jesus Christ.

    The spiritual life is human life lived in openness toward God’s love. It is life lived in assurance of God’s forgiveness of ourselves and of others. It is life that inspires compassion, steadiness and a willingness to remain ready to respond, but not react, to hold all things lightly and not to cling. And, for all of these reasons, it is a life that can be embraced without anxiety, because our only comfort in life and in death lies in the fact that we belong, body and soul, not to ourselves, but to God.

    I’ve often wondered what thoughts must have tumbled around in Peter’s head as he came down from that mountain, literally the ultimate mountaintop experience. Whatever he was thinking about, it took some more time and some spectacular failures on his part, before he was ready to do what the voice from heaven told him to do – to listen to Jesus when Jesus talked about the things that ran counter to Peter’s hopes and desires.  

    With this blog, I am drawing to a close this year’s special series on “Thin Places.” In the next academic year, beginning in September, in addition to the regular Tuesday blogs, I plan to introduce a series on Thomas Merton. I hope you will join us again there.

  • Where the Broken are Healed

    by Michael Jinkins | May 24, 2016


    A preaching professor once told me that each of us really has just one sermon that is truly our own. A few weeks ago, I was chatting about this subject with seminary trustee and friend Mark Goodman-Morris on a glorious Sunday morning in Northern California.

    I was there to teach Sunday school in the church, Portola Valley Presbyterian Church, near San Francisco, where Mark and Cheryl Goodman-Morris have served as co-pastors for the majority of their ministries. Both are graduates of Louisville Seminary, and both retired on Easter Sunday. The very morning I was there, in fact, Cheryl was preaching her farewell sermon. It was one of the most stunning - I'm tempted to say one of the most miraculous - sermons I've ever witnessed. The music, dramatics and gospel proclamation were unforgettable.

    So, Mark and I were standing outside the education building just before Sunday school talking about preaching and this idea that we all really have just one sermon that is truly ours.

    And I said to him, "You know, I really think I've got two sermons: ‘God is really big,’ and ‘We should be kind to each other’.”

    Now, I am a textual preacher, not a topical one. I was a lectionary preacher during the thirteen years I was a pastor. And in these subsequent twenty-three years during which I have either taught or provided leadership in Presbyterian seminaries, I most often have preached from texts about God's calling of us. Vocational sermons. But, if I went back through the files of printed sermons that have accumulated in boxes over the years, despite the texts on which I was preaching, I am pretty sure that most of my sermons would get around to saying either: "God is really big" or "We should be kind to each other."

    God is indeed big. God is really big, bigger than we can imagine, so big that the same God who creates whole universes and multiverses and holds them in existence can manage to fit into our hearts. And when God is in our hearts, God makes us kind.

    That's it. That's all I've got.

    I've written a lot lately about how big God is, so today I'm going to touch on my other sermon: "We should be kind to each other."

    Recently, I related this conversation with Mark Goodman-Morris to my spiritual director, Father Paul, and he said that it sounds like I am beginning to strip away the inessentials from my faith. He is probably being kind by not adding that this is what old guys do. But it is. Or it can be.

    Someone I have been reading again lately is an "old guy," in almost every sense of the phrase: Aelred of Rievaulx. I've written a blog about him before. But recently I returned to him, quite by accident (if you believe in accidents!), and I was struck again by how his life serves as a sort of lived sermon on the theme, "We should be kind to each other." It so happened (as "accidents" go) that while I was at Gethsemani Abbey for a post-Easter silent retreat some weeks back, I decided to read the Penguin Classics title, The Cistercian World: Monastic Writings of the Twelfth Century, edited and translated by Pauline Matarasso (1993). It is one of those books I've been meaning to read for years but just hadn't gotten around to. It was worth the wait because it reminded me that Aelred of Rievaulx was one of the gentlest and most gracious souls ever to walk this earth. And he held a position of leadership.

    Aelred, a native of Northumberland and once a member of King David of Scotland's household, served as abbot of Rievaulx Abbey in northeastern Yorkshire (England) from 1147 till his death almost twenty years later. He wrote books of history and spiritual guidance, and he traveled extensively as a diplomat, in addition to serving as an abbot. He did all of this despite suffering from debilitating illnesses throughout most of his adult life (apparently, high on the list of his maladies was crippling rheumatoid arthritis). Although he never seemed to have stopped working, traveling (all over Europe by horseback or on foot) and suffering, he retained a remarkable spirit of gentleness, kindness and grace.

    When I began reading Aelred seriously, I promised I would visit Rievaulx Abbey. And last summer Debbie and I spent a day at Rievaulx. There's so much to see.

    The abbey was once massive. It was one of the most impressive and beautiful abbeys in all of Europe. Built in the twelfth century, in the heyday of Cistercian expansion, it was devastated during the dissolution of abbeys under King Henry VIII of England. But its ruins remain among the most elegant structures you will see anywhere in the world. Its Gothic arches, columns and massive stone walls rise up in a lush valley like the bleached skeleton of a once proud beast.

    There was one building above all others I longed to see, though it is so small you could walk right past it without noticing: Abbot Aelred's hut. This small building, really just two little rooms, was built for Aelred when he became too sick to attend regularly to the "Honorarium," the daily routine of prayer services marking the progression of each day for Cistercian monks.

    From that little hut of stone, which stood between the infirmary and the chapel, and quite near the chapter house, Aelred, often in physical agony, would conduct the affairs of the abbey, listen to disputes between monks, pray, counsel, provide spiritual direction, write and teach. The ruins of the hut still stand. You can make them out quite clearly and walk among the low walls. Something drew me to stand in the "rooms" (or what's left of them) where Aelred lived, served and died.

    What is it that attracts me most to Aelred? Just this: If ever there was a patron saint for those whose only two sermons are "God is really big" and "We should be kind to each other," Aelred is our saint.

    This is especially true when it comes to the sermon about kindness. And the story that best exemplifies Aelred's kindness concerns a monk who would have made most abbots pull out their tonsured hair. Walter Daniel, a monk while Aelred was abbot of Rievaulx, tells the story in his biography of Aelred. [The Life of Aelred of Rievaulx (Collegeville: Cistercian Publications, 1994]

    Many people made their way to monasteries, especially Cistercian monasteries, during the twelfth century, and many did not successfully make the transition from secular to monastic life. You come across their stories often in contemporary documents.

    Usually, the people who tried but failed to live the monastic life are portrayed as hopelessly fallen, lost, even damned. But Aelred simply could not bring himself to condemn those who tried and failed to become monks.

    We see this especially in the case of a young man who came to Aelred's abbey, and departed from it, over and over again. In fact, it almost seems as though whenever this monk was in the monastery, he was pining for a secular life. The other monks had really given up on him. Probably most of the other monks gave up on him the first time he backslid. Not Aelred.

    Each time this monk returned to secular life, Aelred prayed for his return to the monastery. Each time he returned, Aelred played the role of the father in the story of the prodigal son, welcoming the prodigal home again with tears, embraces and prayers of thanksgiving. It seems clear that some monks had begun to think that it was their father-abbot who was prodigal, at least with regard to his mercy.

    The relationship endured, apparently for years, until, at last, this wayward monk returned desperately ill from a journey he had undertaken on behalf of the abbey. Aelred had a premonition that the monk had returned to die.

    As the monk came within the walls of the abbey, Aelred greeted him saying that he would soon enter into lasting glory. The monk didn't catch Aelred's meaning, and was already talking again about renouncing the monastery for the secular world even before he could take off his traveling cloak. Nonetheless Aelred treated the monk with grace and gentleness. Within hours of his return, the monk fell ill. And Aelred, consistent in his love, attended the dying monk and prayed for him for hours, despite his own infirmities. At last the man died, his head resting in Aelred's hands, the abbot interceding with Saint Benedict to pray for him as he was received by God.

    In other words, this unfaithful monk died in the ideal pose that every faithful monk longed for at death. Prayed into heaven by his abbot and St. Benedict! This was galling to the "faithful" monks, the monks who never strayed.

    What perhaps scandalized the other monks most was that Aelred seemed always to worry more about the troublesome than the faithful. And there were a lot of troublesome sorts. Rievaulx, during Aelred's time, had become something of a refuge for all sorts of people who might not otherwise have entered a monastery. In response to a monk who questioned Aelred's approach to "discipline," and who demanded that errant souls should be punished, Aelred said:

    “No, brother, no; do not kill the soul for which Christ died, nor drive away the glory from this house [the abbey]. Remember that we too are sojourners as were all our fathers, and the supreme and singular glory of Rievaulx is this: that it teaches us above all else forbearance with the weak and compassion for others in their necessities. And this is our conscientious conviction, that this house is holy inasmuch as it begets for its God children who are peacemakers. All, weak and strong alike, should find in Rievaulx a place of peace, and there, like fish in the vastness of the sea enjoy the blissful and limitless quietude of love. ..." (Daniel, The Life of Aelred, 159)

    Commenting on what Aelred did for his abbey, his chronicler, Walter Daniel, wrote that "this man turned Rievaulx into a veritable stronghold for the comfort and support of the weak. ... What person was so crushed and scorned but found there a haven of quietness? Whoever came to Rievaulx crippled in spirit and did not find in Aelred a loving father ...? When was anyone expelled from that house on account of physical or moral frailty ...?" (Daniel, The Life of Aelred, 159)

    For Aelred, his abbey was the Church of Jesus Christ in miniature. Its mission was to be a place where the sick and broken could be healed.

    Not a bad understanding of the church. And, surely, one that still deserves a try.

  • 1044 Alta Vista Road |
  • Louisville, KY 40205 |
  • 800.264.1839 |
  • Fax: 502.895.1096 |
  • Site Map
© Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary